My ovaries beat like a heart,
pinhead egg crates are tiny satellites,
float so slight, we cannot feel the work,
what lived in our mothers now lives in us.
A shallow panic attack every month,
red disco sound with all the ladies—
we throw our fallopian tubes in the air,
tiny arms that just don’t care.
My uterus is the mothership,
where to land, get a quick bite, grow a human,
it happens in stages and we count the weeks,
we swell on the outside, a walking reminder,
of sex, of uneasiness.
Men, sweaty in suits, they legislate babies
while they sit as barren spinsters,
man cat ladies in tight knit sweaters.
My vagina, a hurricane we rarely see,
we feel it’s weather, I capitalize Vagina,
the passage into the world,
it opens like a time portal,
you can expect miracles,
the child slips out,
clothed in the nothing that comes
before everything.
Sarah Lilius lives in Arlington, VA. She is the author of The Heart Factory (Black Cat Moon Press, 2016) and What Becomes Within (ELJ Publications, 2014). Her work can most recently be found in Flapperhouse, Fourth & Sycamore, and Drunk Monkeys. Check out her website, sarahlilius.com.
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